Diamonds Will Turn to Coal
by angels fly with starry wings
Summary: You have always relied on your beauty to get you through your obstacles. Maybe that's why you scream so loudly when the flames near your face. One-shot. For the Madrigal's Prompt.


_Diamonds Will Turn to Coal_

_**by**_

_FallenMidnightAngel_

.(**.*****.**).

You have always relied on your beauty to get you through your obstacles. Of course, you have many other talents (you _are _a Kabra, after all), but when in times of trouble, it was always easier to flash a pearl-like smile and flutter your eyelashes then to pull out your dart gun and administer poison number eight.

Maybe that's why you scream so loudly when the flames near your face.

.(**.*****.**).

You wake up to the _wonderful_ smell of antiseptic and your own bad breath (can you detect the sarcasm?). You will have the next ten seconds permanently etched into your brain, even though you do not know it yet, as you lift your hands to your face and feel the rough gauze beneath your sensitive fingertips. You are immediately filled with terror as you rip the needles out of your arms and rush to the only mirror in the room, which is right above the sink in the left corner, ignoring the straight tone of your heart monitor, which is pronouncing you dead at the moment.

You are met with all but your eyes and nose covered in those _prettywhite_ bandages, and you scream in panic as you try your hardest to rip them off. A nurse runs in and pulls you back just as you see the first hint of burnt-red skin, and you cry out, "No! No! I have to look!" as two more nurses run in, one of them sticking a needle in your arm. You feel sleepy, and you slump to the floor, but you will have no sweet dreams in this chemical-induced sleep; only nightmares of that speck of red skin.

.(**.*****.**).

Blurry walls ink into existence as your cinnamon eyes flicker open. Your skull aches, as well as your arms, and you try to sit up and put a hand to your head, only to find that you cannot move. You look down, expecting to see your pink silk sheets, but cheap cotton blankets greet you instead. You look further down, only to see that your arms and legs are restrained, attached to the plastic white bed frame with plastic blue cuffs.

You stare at the ceiling for a few moments before the past comes flooding in so quickly that you find yourself gasping for breath. The bandages. The speck of red skin. Before your brain has a chance to catch up with your mouth, you find yourself calling for a nurse, seeing as your hands cannot reach the call button.

The thought creeps into your mind that you must look absolutely _pitiful_. You are lying there, cuffed to a hospital bed, moaning for a nurse to come, all whilst your face is covered in bandages. If this was anyone else, perhaps one of those Starling snobs or Cahill brats, you would laugh and curl your lip at their _ohsosad_ misfortune. You are not a Cahill though, nor are you a Starling. You are a _Kabra_, yet you are as helpless as a field-mouse. The nurse walks in, wary of another panic attack. "Yes?" She says, stopping a good five feet away from your bed.

When you speak, your voice is hoarse, and you find that your throat hurts. "What happened? Why am I here? Why is my face bandaged?" you demand.

"Ms. Kabra, you are very unstable at the moment, and I find it unnecessary to –"

"Unnecessary to what? I wake up in a hospital bed, I don't remember anything that would even hint as to why I am here, and I end up with an incompetent idiot for a nurse! I demand to know what's going on!"

Of course, your brother chooses this exact moment to show up.

"Natalie, calm down," he purrs, sitting in a chair and taking your hand; a picture perfect painting of a picture perfect sibling relationship. "You. Leave." The nurse narrows her eyes, but nevertheless turns around and stalks out of the room.

You turn your head to your brother, and you are ashamed to feel wet tears welling up in your eyes. You are suddenly glad that your mother is not here to see you – you would be rebuked for this show of human nature.

"Ian," you whimper, your raw throat closing up. "Please. What is happening? Why am I here? Wh-" Here your voice cracks, and you attempt to hang on to what is left of your pride by clearing your throat and immediately continuing with your plead. "Why is my face like this?"

Your brother hangs his head. When he finally looks up at you, you see that a tear has made its slow trail down his left cheek.

"There was a fire, Nat. Yo- you got burned."

"How badly?" Your voice is no higher than a whisper. Ian shakes his head slightly. "How badly, Ian? Tell me!" He doesn't look you in the eye. "Please, Ian. Tell me."

"Very badly, Nat. The burns will scar, they won't ever completely go away."

You hold your head high for a total of seven seconds – you try to hold onto the sliver of your pride that is left by reminding yourself that you are a Kabra, and Kabras do not cry. _But,_ you think, _I don't look like a Kabra anymore. I suppose I shouldn't act like one either._

.(**.*****.**).

You and your brother share a flat in the small town of Reading, England. The first thing you do upon arrival to your home is to remove all the mirrors in the house. You subdue your anger for a few hours by smashing them onto the floor, and then sitting indignantly on the cheap polyester couch while your brother silently picks up the pieces of glass and puts them in the rubbish bin.

You don't say another word for the rest of the day.

.(**.*****.**).

"We need some eggs and milk, Natalie. I have to run to Tesco. I will be back in an hour or so." Ian says. It's late, nearing midnight, and for some reason, the idea of being alone at this hour frightens you.

"I'm coming with," you say, and Ian opens his mouth to protest. "I refuse to be left here like an invalid, Ian. I am coming with you."

He nods, and you grab your purse.

.(**.*****.**).

By the time you near Tesco, you are shaking with the apprehension of going inside. "Ian, I've changed my mind. Just. . . Just leave me here. You'll be back soon."

Your brother parks the car and pulls out the keys.

"Why? I was under the impression that you were coming with, Natalie, that you didn't want to be treated like an invalid."

"I can't go inside like this," you whisper. You cannot talk normally for the fear of your voice cracking. "They'll all stare at me like I'm a freak. I cannot go inside."

"Natal-"

"_Don't _try to persuade me, Ian! I know I'm a Kabra, I know that fear is FLO, _for losers only_. I suppose I'm a loser then – I certainly look like one! I'm grotesque, I'm disgusting! I'm not a Kabra; I'm just an ugly, burned Natalie!"

Your brother shakes his head slowly, disappointment clear in his eyes. "There are two kinds of people in the world, Natalie – the ones who care what you look like, and the ones who don't. The ones who care, well, they aren't even worth your spit. But if you can't walk into a Tesco at eleven 'o' clock at night when there are three people inside, then that isn't about the people, Nat, that's about you. And you need to fix it."

You quickly shake your head, hair flying out around your face. "I'm not going inside, Ian. You're not changing my mind."

He purses his lips. "I'm not _trying_ to change your mind. I'm trying to tell you that you are worth so much more than what you think about yourself. Because I, as well as the few people _smart_ enough, can see how beautiful you truly are."

And then he leaves.

And all you can do is curl up in the passenger seat and cry.

.(**.*****.**).

It is four months later, and the burns on your face are nothing more than scars now. But they are still there, and you notice that your skin has paled considerably from your time indoors. Ian is not at your flat today, and you decide to make yourself a sandwich until he can bring home some take-out Chinese. As you look in the fridge, you realize that you are out of lunch-meat.

You take a deep breath and grab your purse and car keys.

.(**.*****.**).

_Hello inhabitants of the world! _

_This is obviously about Natalie Kabra getting burned badly. I wrote it for a reason, and that reason is this: I came back from camp on July 17__th__. I had bad second degree, almost third degree, sunburns on my face - I looked exactly like Gollum, no kidding. My eyes were puffy from something called sun poisoning, and my legs, back, neck and arms were bright red too. And, yes, I did put on sunscreen – I'm pale as a ghost, so I burn as easily as one. ^^ Replace the Tesco (A British Wal*Mart) for Dominick's and Ian for my sister, and you have the almost exact same conversation that we had that night. I curled up and cried because that was the 18__th__ and my birthday is the 19__th__. It was a pretty sucky birthday. . ._

_. . .Except for the fact that on the 20__th__, I won __**Best Throughout**__ in Amy's contest! Of course, I'll miss her like crazy. Thanks for everything, Amy._

_This is for the Madrigal prompt! Yay for fire! xD_

_Please review! CC is welcomed! _

_~Ari_

_(P.S. Is anyone interested in betaing for me? I could really use one! ^^)_


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